


The Spider-Man of Gotham

by ScottisI



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham City - Fandom, Spider-Man - All Media Types, peter parker - Fandom
Genre: AU Peter is in Gotham, Action, How many times can you kill Uncle Ben before it gets boring?, Might change, No Batman, Plot, Super-hero action adventure, no romance yet, ongoing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9829589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScottisI/pseuds/ScottisI
Summary: What if Peter Parker lived in Gotham rather than New York? Webs will be swung, quips will be made, and familiar faces will be revamped. Somewhere in the multi-verse the two fictional settings crossover in smaller ways.*On Hold*





	1. 1

Peter willed himself not to scratch the fading red mark on his wrist. He failed. It stung when he touched it, but the bite hadn't gone away. Aunt May had been freaked out. Uncle Ben told her that she was making too much fuss. The biggest shock had been when a Ace Chemicals representative showed up at their door with an offer to provide any medical care needed free of charge. His aunt and uncle thanked them for their kindness, but declined. Peter seemed fine. No fever, aches, pains, or anything that would cause concern.

Except that he had passed out once he had got home from the field trip. He had woken up to the sound of Aunt May coming through the front door three hours later. Peter took a quick shower before he came down and blamed it on a chain smoker at the lab. It didn't look like she thought twice about his story. She did see the bite on his wrist, which led to a fussing session. Uncle Ben had rescued him a few minutes later when he got home from work. Peter was able to use the distraction to get upstairs under the guise of doing his homework. He didn't want to tell them that his head was pounding and that the fly in the kitchen was driving him crazy. He fallen asleep at his desk, which wasn't out of character, but this time had been on purpose. It was the next day when the Ace Chemicals representative showed up.

"That was nice of them," Aunt May placed the sack lunch on the counter.

"They were watching their ass," Uncle Ben took a sip of coffee.

"Not in front of Peter," Aunt May snapped.

"I'm in high school," Peter laughed. "I've heard worse."

It was an hour before the bus would arrive, but having breakfast together was worth waking up early. Peter still wore his pajamas, snowflake pattern as they were a gift the previous Christmas, while his Aunt and Uncle were already dressed for work. 

"Where are your glasses?" Aunt May sat at the table with a fresh cup of coffee. "Did you lose them?"

"No," Peter shook his head. "Don't worry, we won't have to replace them. I just forgot them in my room."

"And he made it down the stairs," Uncle Ben chuckled. "This is a banner day."

"I'll grab them now," Peter stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth.

"I'll be home late tonight," Aunt May called after him. "One of the girls is sick and we're splitting her shift."

Peter slipped into his room. The glasses blurred his vision and gave him a headache. He slipped off his pajama shirt. The reflection that stood in the corner of the room looked like him, but it had to be wrong. He had always been skinny. Academics were his strong suit. Science was his love and there wasn't much call for aerobics or weight training. The Peter Parker that stared back at him hadn't got that message. He had a four pack, the muscles in his chest were taut, and his arms were solidly defined rather than sticks.

"Peter," Uncle Ben called.

He jumped at the sound.

"Yeah?"

"We're leaving," Uncle Ben replied. "Love you. Let us know if that bite starts to look infected. We'll see you tonight."

"Okay," Peter called back as he flexed in the mirror. "A spider bite gave me abs?"

The knob to his closet felt weird. He looked down to see his shirt was stuck to his hand. Peter grabbed it and yanked it free. He tossed the shirt onto his bed. At least he tried. It caught on the tips of his fingers. He glared at the shirt. It dropped to the floor. Peter looked down at it and then back at his hand. He turned slowly back to the closet. His hand rested on the knob and he carefully pulled the door open. There was a brief moment where his skin stuck to the metal. It took a conscious effort to make it stop. Like blinking with an eye he didn't know he had.

He completed his morning routine as carefully as he could to avoid further issues. The laces on his shoes gave him the most trouble. Little tufts of thread continuously stuck to his fingers. Peter grabbed his backpack and hurried out the door just in time to see his bus pull away.

There was usually had enough time after getting ready to piggy-back on the WiFi from next door to check on the weather. Old Man Watson was grumpy on his best days, but he had been civil when he asked Peter to setup the network in his house. Aunt May said that he had been married once, had a daughter too, but they left around the time Peter arrived. He thought he could vaguely recall red hair. 

He watched the bus disappear as it turned the corner. This wasn't the first time he had missed it, but he didn't have any money for the train. He tightened the straps on his backpack and started to jog along the sidewalk. The air came easy. His stride stretched. Soon he was bounding along the path faster than he had ever ran.

Something told him to move, an invisible hand guiding him, as simple as knowing where his nose was with his eyes closed. Peter leaped into the air over a car that tried to beat a yellow light. He landed in a crouch on the other side of the street. Peter stood slowly and turned around. The jump across two lanes of morning traffic had been easy. He blinked a couple of times as the realization truly took hold. The average car was six feet wide. A lane was roughly ten to allow for size variation. He had easily jumped twenty feet, not counting the shoulder, bike lane, or sidewalk. There was also the matter of height.

"Watch where you're going, kid," one of the drivers yelled.

Peter turned around without a word. His thoughts drifted as he walked. Everything weird that was happening could be traced back to that spider bite during the tour of Ace Chemicals. All he had to do to figure this out was to get back to the lab. Fifteen stories up, through a few locked doors, guards, and cameras.

 _The internet would be a good place to start_.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ace Chemicals, that sounds familiar.

Ace Chemicals had a lot of projects that they proudly displayed on their website, but he could find nothing about spiders. They didn't even dabble in pest control. There had been a spider, he had the dried husk in a matchbox in his desk. It didn't match any of the pictures he found online, or explain why Ace Chemicals had taken an interest in his medical care. Beyond avoiding a lawsuit.

_That could be my way in._

Peter made it through the day by keeping his head down. He didn't have many friends, at all really, but it was the price to pay to fly under the radar. There were days when he found himself turning to talk to someone in the empty chair at lunch. A young man with red hair and a blonde girl sat with him in his dreams. Repeatedly. Other times his room, but not, would be packed with the three of them studying. It wasn't something that he could really talk to anyone about.

He shook the thought from his head. The spider thing took precedence. He took the train to Ace Chemicals once school was finished. His phone vibrated in his pocket. The text display said it was Uncle Ben. He hit ignore.

Peter stared up at the building. It stretched up to the sky in a mixture of classic architecture and modern design. The tour guide said that they had incorporated the original building into the construction of the skyscraper. That translated to them taking one of the old chemical tanks and turning it to an art piece. The original building had been little more than a factory. Now they had moved on to research and development with shiny labs, fancy décor, and a new suit at the top of the table.

He watched the doors for a while. People came and went without much fuss. He knew from the tour that there was a security check in the lobby that required a badge. There were also cameras, guards, and every door to an important room needed clearance.

"This is a stupid idea," he whispered.

That strange feeling played along his spine. His eyes went to a single man in the middle of the throng. Black reflective glasses stared back at him. The man was thickly built, wore a simple gray suit that blended in with the people around him, and radiated menace. Peter could tell the man was focused solely on him.

"Yeah," he hurried back to the train. "Really stupid idea."

Peter stopped at the turnstile. He had used the last of his tokens to get out here. The feeling came back stronger. He looked over his shoulder to see the man coming down the stairs. Peter gritted his teeth and hopped over the turnstile.

"I'll pay double next time," he called when he landed on the other side.

He sprinted to the platform in time to see the train pull away. The area around him was practically empty. It was still a couple of hours before the workday ended. A few stragglers, and a homeless guy, were on the platform with him. The sound of the turnstile echoed down the stairs. That new feeling was screaming at him to move. Run, hide, fight, or do something. He couldn't just stay put.

Peter scanned the area. The station was underground and only accessible through the stairs. He couldn't double-back without going passed the man he was trying to avoid. The bathroom wasn't an option, not only were they notoriously gross, they only had one door.

_Doors._

He jogged along the platform. There was a plain door with an 'employees only' sign along the far wall. It was locked.

_Of course it's locked._

Peter grabbed the handle and pushed. The lock gave out a sharp snap as it broke. He slipped through and pulled the door shut behind him. His hand stayed on the door to hold it in place. The room was dark and, thankfully, empty. It stretched out to a hallway that ended in a turn back toward the entrance.

_Hold the door or run?_

He shrugged. The feeling was still there, not as strong, but present. Peter jerked the handle toward the frame. The metal twisted and pinched together. He let go of the door. It stayed closed. 

_Why not both?_

Peter walked slowly down the hall. They didn't do toll booths anymore, he had no real clue what an employee room was for these days. The hallway led away from the track so it wasn't for access to the rails. That feeling faded with every step he took. Peter started to jog down the hall. It ended in a dark storage room with a single window giving light.

He ran to the wall, hopped up, and pressed the window open. The rusty hinges screeched in protest. He rolled out of the window. The room was familiar, it was the area before the turnstiles. He got to his feet and ran up the stairs to the street.

Peter took a right and continued on. He slipped easily through the throng. Somehow his feet knew where to go. He stopped running when he got to a bus stop he recognized. It wasn't one he usually took, but he knew how to get home. He used the last bit of money he had to pay for a seat. His breath came out in a long, ragged stretch. He leaned his head against the window. The trip would take a while. 

He took out his phone and checked his messages.

"Peter," Uncle Ben said. "You're supposed to be home. Call me when you get this."

There was a sound in the background. It was breaking glass. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

"Easy," he heard Uncle Ben say. "We don't have much."

Muffled voice.

"Easy," Uncle Ben repeated. "No need to-"

There was a pop. Uncle Ben grunted. The phone clattered on the floor. He could hear footsteps. Something crashed.

"Peter," Uncle Ben whispered. His voice grew quieter with every word. "I love you, son. Tell May, I love her."

"Press seven to delete. Press nine to save," the automated voice cut in.

Peter couldn't breath. He looked at the phone. Did he save it? Did he want to hear his uncle die again and again? Would Aunt May want to know? Could the police use the information? Maybe Uncle Ben was still alive. The bus was moving too slow.

He pulled the bell. The bus pulled to the side. Peter pushed his way to the door and out onto the street. He had never ran so fast.

-

Peter sat at the kitchen table. A string of police officers came and went. They had been called before he got home. He had found Uncle Ben on the floor in the living room. The carpet had absorbed a lot of blood. He wasn't sure if he could go in that room again. Ever.

He showed the police his call log. Played the message. They took his statement. One of the neighbors had called the police. A burglar had broken in through the backdoor. He had shot Uncle Ben and ran off through the front door without taking anything. White male, between six feet and six-three, thin build, and shaggy blond hair. Fled toward downtown.

Peter heard a couple of the officers in the other room. This wasn't the first break-in that ended in bloodshed. Someone was supplying the scum of Gotham with hardware. This would play out in the same way somewhere else within a week.

"My aunt," Peter turned his attention to an officer that sat opposite of him. "She's at work. She doesn't know."

The officer nodded, "do you have a contact number?"

"It's in my phone," Peter hadn't touched it since he'd gotten home. "Aunt May. Work."

"We'll let her know," the officer looked down at where it sat. "May I get the number?"

"Yes," Peter blinked. "Is there something I should be doing?"

"You've done all you can, kid," the officer flipped through the contacts.

Peter leaned back in the chair. _No. I haven't. But I will._


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With great power must also come great responsibility. That's crap. All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people do nothing.

Peter bounced his leg as he waited. The police station was busy, but not overly. He had come to know the smell of stale coffee, disinfectant, and the underlying body odor quite well. A gust of air rushed through the lobby every time the door opened. He had learned the difference between the smell of a cop and a crook. Peter hoped that he wouldn't be around long enough to identify the type of scent each crime had.

"Hey, Pete," Sergeant Nickles waved as took his place at the desk. "Back again?"

The sergeant was a wiry older man. He had glared at Peter the first day. It wasn't until the reason came out that he softened. There was even an odd smile.

"Any new information on the case?" Peter asked.

"You've been asking me that every day for the last week," Nickles sighed. "Every time I have to tell you no and remind you that if there was any new information I cannot release it."

Nickles flipped through a folder on his desk. He made eye contact with Peter and pushed it over the edge.

"Whoops," he deadpanned. "Could you get that for me?"

Peter plucked the papers from the floor.

_Joe Chill. White male. Mid-forties. Long list of breaking and entering. Currently on probation for an assault. Matches the description of as a person of interest in a series of burglaries. No current address, but there was an old listing. A mugshot. Too thin, scar along the right side of his jaw, stringy hair, and a hook nose that had been broken at least once._

Peter slipped the papers into the folder. He placed it back on the desk.

"Thank you," Peter said.

"No clue what you mean," Nickles shrugged. "Be careful out there."

"I will," Peter nodded.

He hurried out of the station. They didn't have an address, but there was a list of houses that had been broken into. There was a chance he could find Chill if he took the last known addresses and the victims. He wasn't sure why the police hadn't been able to do that yet. It was Gotham, crime was practically the main export. The police were overworked, understaffed, and possibly thin on good cops.

Peter felt the stab of warning in the back of his head. His eyes settled on the familiar suited thug. The man had been following him since his short-sighted visit to Ace Chemicals. He hadn't made a move against Peter, but he still oozed danger. An annoying stalker wasn't as pressing as tracking down the guy who killed Uncle Ben.

_Get a map of the city. Plot out the break-ins. Find the former address. See if there is any overlap. Travel time. Ease of access. Dang, I should be a cop. In Metropolis. I'd hate to be a cop here._

He paused.

_No. I won't run away from this. I won't just let this place decay. How can I stand by when I can help? That is what's wrong with this city. Thousands of people with thinking it's not their problem._

Peter started to move again. He stopped by a newsstand.

"Do you have a map of the city?" He asked the guy that was leaning on the counter.

"Ten fifty," the guy pointed to the rack of maps to his right.

"There's this thing called Google Maps," Peter said.

"Yeah," the guy glared at him. "That's why they're ten fifty."

Peter shook his head and took out his wallet. He only had three bills. A twenty, a five, and a ten. Taking the train to the station had started to get expensive. Bacon, his faithful piggy bank, had been sacrificed for the cause. After a moment of deliberation he put a ten and a five on the counter. He took one of the maps and waited.

"What?" The guy sucked on something between his teeth.

"My change," Peter said.

The guy pointed to a sign obscured by a magazine rack.

"Exact change only," the guy smiled.

Peter stared at the man for a moment. This was the type of person he would be helping. Every single citizen of Gotham.

"It's supposed to rain later," Peter said. "Stay dry."

"Thanks," the smile on his face faltered.

He headed to the library. Aunt May didn't need to see this. Peter slipped into one of the study rooms and started his work. He set out the map, put down the last known address, and started to mark the string of break ins. Once he had done that he pulled up any information on Joe Chill that he could find. Previous crimes included a shooting fifteen years ago and several muggings. He had gotten out early on a plea bargain to testify against a former cellmate.

The red marks made a couple of shaky circles around the map. They seemed to focus around The Narrows on the south side of Midtown. Peter looked the pattern a moment longer. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn't quite place it. He placed his finger on his street and traced it to the next closest mark. It went almost directly along the Metro Line route.

_Chill is using the train._

The Narrows. It was the only place in Gotham that rivaled the area around Arkham. Finding Chill wasn't going to be easy. He had a name and a neighborhood. That was more than he had yesterday. It was just a matter of time. 

He folded the map up and slipped it into his pocket. If he was going after Chill he as going to need to be smart about it. Everyone had a smartphone these days. A decent picture would be easily tracked to his PlaceBook account. A little legwork would lead to his school ID too.

_I've got some ideas._

Peter left the library. He headed to a nearby sporting goods store. Winter stuff was on sale. He got a red balaclava and a pair of blue gloves for fifteen bucks. He considered it a good investment even if he only had change left in his pockets. They were good quality, fit, and would keep him warm while protecting his identity. Now all he needed was to figure out Aunt May's work schedule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Thank you for the kudos. I'm going to get started on the next part immediately.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who was that masked man?

Aunt May picked more shifts. She had been a nurse for twenty years and could fill in just about anywhere. Peter didn't like seeing her this way, but he could relate. He didn't like empty moments anymore. Finding Chill was something to focus on other than the spots on the carpet that were slightly off color.

He waited until Aunt May had left for the hospital before he got his gear in order. A dark gray hoodie, the red balaclava mask, his new gloves, a baggy pair of pants, and some old sneakers that were a little tight. They were clothes he didn't mind losing, or throwing away, if needed.

The train wasn't an option. There was a good chance he was going to be sneaking around places that weren't exactly friendly for most of the night. He couldn't risk someone from there seeing him on the train. Luckily, he found a quick way around town. The rooftop highway wasn't a new discovery, Gotham architecture was perfect for it, but being able to easily leap alleys and streets greatly increased its usefulness.

He tucked the mask in his pocket and headed out into the night. Peter waited until he was out of his neighborhood before he slipped into an alley. He pulled the mask on and scaled the side of a building. The city stretched out before him. He righted himself using the train as a guide. Peter scanned the skyline as he plotted out his path. South City Park separated The Narrows from the rest of Midtown. A thin stretch of industrial buildings connected the borough to the rest of the island.

"You can do this," he muttered.

Peter sprinted toward the edge of the roof. He leaped across the street and landed easily on the next building. The rooftop highway carried him quickly across the city. He found himself looking out at the warehouses that stood as a buffer between The Narrows and Midtown. Gentrification hadn't taken root. A string of shootings, break-ins, and a few cases of arson scared the potential real estate sharks away.

Gotham City wasn't a beacon of peace, but if there was a part of the city that was truly wasted it was The Narrows. People said that the cops would only show up in riot gear. Every election year would bring a steaming pile of promises to clean up the area. All it did was pump some money into the neighborhood and give the security firms an extra boost of business.

Peter checked the address yet again. He was three blocks from his first stop. If he got lucky it would be his last as well. He hopped down to street level and stuck to the shadows. His hood was pulled tight. There were more people on the streets than he expected. They didn't make it obvious that they were watching him, but he could feel their eyes. It was just like the guy who had been following, except less hostile.

"Hey there, fish," a thin voice called from a stoop ahead of him. "What are you doing out here?"

"I'm looking for someone," he kept his voice steady.

"And who is that?" The voice belonged to a scarecrow of a man with deep circles under his eyes.

Peter thought for a second.

"Joe Chill."

"Oh," the guy leered. "You're looking for Chill. Penguin's little friend."

Peter didn't say anything. He had no idea what the guy was talking about. What did a penguin have to do with it?

"Know where he is?"

The guy wobbled over to him. His legs didn't look like there were strong enough to hold him up, let alone for him to walk. The thick smell of cigarettes and something else mingled with days old body odor. Peter could feel his eyes starting to water with every step the guy took.

"I know," his voice took a sing-song voice. "Come on, fish."

Peter followed a few steps behind the guy. He couldn't escape the cloud of stench without losing sight of the guy. A group of people across the street heckled Peter as he passed. He kept his hands in his pockets and his focus on his guide.

The guy stopped at an alley. He waved Peter on.

"Right there," the guy pointed to a door blocked by a few crushed boxes.

A tingle along his spine alerted him. He dodged out of the way as the guy pulled a gun. A shot smacked into the brick wall instead of Peters ribs. He clamped his hand on the wrist that held the gun and squeezed. The guy screamed at the audible snap of his bones. Peter caught the gun as it fell. He lifted the guy off his feet and tossed him down the alley. Peter looked back at the rest of the street. No one seemed to be alarmed at the gunfire.

He looked down at the gun in his hand. Firearms weren't one of his interests, but this didn't look like the usual street fair. It was lighter than it looked and felt like something other than metal. The serial number had been filed off. Peter gripped the barrel and squeezed. He tossed the ruined weapon into the alley.

Peter sighed. He was no closer to finding Chill, but now he knew something about a penguin, which was very helpful. Maybe the next person he talked to would tell him about a gerbil.

"Nice going kid," a dusky voice belonging to a man who stepped out of an 80s action movie stalked toward him. He had on a denim jacket, worn jeans, and black work boots. All he needed were some cut-off gloves and a mullet. Possibly a couple of patches on the sleeves. And a chain for a belt. "You've got some moves."

"I'm looking for Chill," he said without bothering with further conversation. "Friend of penguins."

The action-dude stared at him for a long moment. Peter hoped that his hood covered enough of the mask. It might not inspire trust. Not that the current selection of citizens were exactly trusting to begin with.

"You've got business with him?"

_Come on, Pete. Play it Bogart._

"He doesn't know me," Peter said. The best way to lie was to tell the truth. "I know of him, and I've got business to discuss."

"I take you to him, you cut me in for a piece of the action," Eighties said.

"Fine," Peter shrugged. "It's not like I know where to find him on my own."

"Didn't expect word to get out so fast," Eighties led him along the sidewalk. They passed the former address without pause. "There's always a market for hardware."

Peter grunted.

_Hardware? Stolen goods, maybe. Break-in kits? Maybe electronic counter-measures._

"Where you from kid?"

_Uh...What do I say? I'm from Midtown, you know, just over the tracks where the houses are made for a family of two adults and two point five children. Stick to the act, Peter. Think of something._

"West Side," Peter said it like the guy should obviously know.

"Easy, junior," Eighties chuckled. "Trying to feel you out, not insult you."

"Gotta represent," Peter puffed up a bit.

_What the hell am I saying? Trying to hard. He'll see right through me. Back off. Bogart. Cool. Stoic. Let them do the talking._

"Street cred," his new guide nodded. "I get it. Stow the act when you get inside. He was inside for a while, doesn't have the patience for punks."

Peter grunted again.

"We're here," Eighties stopped in front of a warehouse.

It looked like any other on the block. Metal walls, dirty windows near the top, and industrial doors that could fit a truck or two. The only real difference was the number of people that just happened to be nearby. There were seven in total. Loitering with intent to act if needed. That danger sense started to amp up.

One of the group stepped to block their path. Eighties held out his arms. Another thug patted him down and let him by. They looked at Peter. He stepped into place.

"What's with the mask?" The pat down artist asked.

"Hides my face," Peter said. "Can't let people seeing me here. It would cause a ruckus."

The guy laughed and let him through. Eighties went first. The scene inside was completely different than the one presented from the street. Lights hung low along a path made by tightly packed shelves. The contents blocked most of the view to next row, but he caught a glimpse of movement. This place wasn't playing around. Seven guys outside, who knew how many inside, and only a single unobstructed path to the door.

_This is either a very good plan, or an incredibly stupid one._

Joe Chill sat behind a desk in an alcove off from the path. He was flanked by three more thugs that were clearly armed. Peter took one look at him and realized this wasn't the guy who killed Uncle Ben. The guy was a sleazeball. He was human waste in the vague shape of a person, but he wasn't the type to get his hands dirty. Years ago he may have been busting heads. Now he had a cushy desk job. Middle management of the criminal variety.

"Well," Chill didn't bother to stand. "Victor, what have you brought me?"

"Kid from the West Side came for business," Eighties, now Victor said.

"West Side, huh?" Chill looked Peter over. "West Side what?"

_Well, crap._

Each of the guards was packing similar high grade firearms as the guy from the street. A few of the boxes that hadn't been covered had a logo that looked military.

_Arms dealer. Great, Pete. You just walked into a huge illegal operation run by a guy that didn't shoot your uncle. Most likely. He may have sold the gun to the shooter, but he hadn't pulled the trigger. Does that matter? He put a loaded gun in the hands of a criminal. It wasn't the same as being the shooter, but Chill was just as responsible. There's a good chance that he's facilitated a lot of pain and suffering with this setup._

"Well?" Chill glared at him. "West Side what?"

_Say something._

"Troop Five Eighty-Three," the words tumbled from his mouth without checking with his brain. "We have you down for five boxes of Mint Thins and two pineapple squares."

Chill laughed. His guards joined in a moment later. Victor stared at him with a blank look on his face.

"Kill him," Chill dismissed him with a wave.

Get out. Now.

That constant tingle crept up his spine and sent the hairs on the back of his neck to attention. His world slowed. Peter dropped into a crouch. He sprang forward, rolled under the table where Chill sat, and flipped it. The solid slab of wood smacked into Chill. It sent the sleazeball hard to the ground. Peter plucked one of the rifles from the air. He bent it into an L-shape and tossed it at the closest guard.

Peter kept moving. He spring-boarded off of the overturned table, launching a dropkick at the next guard. The impact lifted the thug into the air and slammed him into the metal shelf. Peter spun as he fell. He landed in a planking position. The tingle told him to move. He pushed hard and lifted high into the air. Chunks of the cement floor shattered as a spray of bullets spread across where he had been.

He reached out for a shelf, caught it, and pulled himself up onto the thin metal surface. Another burst of gunfire pinged against the underside of his impromptu walkway. Peter ran along the shelve. He hurdled the dusty boxes as he fled. Some part of him knew that the door wasn't an option. It was setup to trap people if they tried to get out. He scanned the interior as he ran. The only option were the windows.

He bounded from shelf to shelf until he was close to the wall. Peter took a breath and launched himself at the window. A string of gunfire followed him as he burst through the aged glass. He caught the side of the building with the flat of his hands.

His heart pounded against his chest. He could hear the group inside the warehouse shouting. The thugs on the street were already looking for him in the alley below. His first night out and he had found Chill, figured out that he wasn't the shooter, and discovered the murder of Uncle Ben was just a small part in something much larger going on in Gotham. Now all he had to do was get home without getting killed. There was also the task of finding out what penguins had to do with all of this. And how he was going to stop all this when the police couldn't.

_All things considered, it hadn't been a bad night._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aiming for at least 1 update a week. Thank you for reading and the kudos. Comments, suggestions, and all that are welcome as well. Not that I'm the best at comments. I'll read a story and completely space.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a chapter.

Peter had spent the last few days researching. He knew what penguins liked to eat, the different kinds, and even some of their mating habits, but he had no idea how that connected to anything in Gotham. The encounter with Joe Chill had taught him that he needed to be prepared. This wasn't an isolated incident, people all over the city were being affected. Stopping the man who killed Uncle Ben wouldn't solve anything. Someone else would take his place. He needed to stop the guns from getting to the streets and that had something to do with penguins.

School didn't feel like it was worth it anymore. He knew he was smart and that graduating was important, but there were guns being smuggled into the city. How could he put homework ahead of saving lives?

_I need answers._ Peter had flashes of roughing up thugs to get them to talk. _That hasn't worked yet. I need help. Yeah, hop into a window of the police department and recruit someone to help you. Don't worry, I'm just some guy in a mask that is creeping around your city._

An idea sparked in his gray matter. A cop probably wouldn't help him, but that didn't mean someone with access to the same information wouldn't. There was a girl who had a dad who was a cop. She spent a lot of her time at the station and even helped setup their new computer network.

_What was her name? Red hair. Glasses. She's in English with me. Quiet. Short. Starts with a B._

He eyes stopped on the clock as he looked up at the ceiling to try to think. School had started twenty minutes ago. Aunt May did not need to worry about him ditching on top of everything else. He hadn't changed out of his stuff from last night. For some reason he didn't think a hoodie with grease marks and the occasional rip that looked oddly like a bullet hole would be proper school attire. Peter stripped off his nocturnal outfit as he searched his room for something to wear.

Peter hopped into a pair of jeans that hung on the end of his bed. He snagged a flannel shirt as he passed his dresser. Loose sneakers waited for him near the door. He slipped them on and grabbed his bag. He stumbled down the street toward the school.

_Twenty minutes. What's first period? Today is Thursday. That means elective. Home Ec. Man, I hope we're baking something today. I could use breakfast._

He dodged people as he sprinted down the street, but refrained from bounding across traffic, though he didn't wait for the light. Pete could see the school where it sat five blocks away. He stopped in his tracks as his danger sense kicked in. It had saved his life more than once since he started going out at night and he had learned to go with it.

Peter juked to the side as a someone tried to grab him from behind. He spun, grabbed the attackers ankles, and pulled. The guy hit the ground hard. Pete stared down at the man who had been tailing. A syringe lay broken by his hand.

"I don't have time for this," Peter said with a glare at the man. "I've had enough of you following me all the time. What do you want?"

The guy didn't say anything.

"Fine," Peter growled. "You're lucky I'm late."

He left the thug on the sidewalk. True to Gotham, no one had given them a second look.

_Should have grabbed his wallet._

_What? Why?_

_His ID. Put a name to the annoyance. Turn it in to the cops maybe. Or TP his house._

_Next time._

Peter stopped at the street across from the school. He couldn't just walk in. They didn't like students wandering the halls, but he couldn't miss class. He checked his watch only to realize it was still on the desk in his room. Being late was better than being absent and he didn't know how long he would have to wait until the bell. He took a deep breath and hurried across the courtyard to main doors.

He tugged on the handle. Nothing happened. Peter stared at the handle. They didn't lock the doors during school hours. He leaned back to see into the closest window. The lights were off. Pete patted his pockets to find his phone only to realize he had left it to charge... right next to his watch. He paced along the courtyard as he stared at the empty building.

"Hey kid," someone yelled from behind him.

Peter turned to see GCPD squad car parked along the curb. An stood beside the vehicle with another in the passenger seat.

"Yes, officer?" Pete asked slowly.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to go to school," Peter nodded to the building behind him.

"On a Sunday?"

"It's Sunday?" Peter asked.

"Are you high?"

"What? No," Peter shook his head. "I bricked my phone and thought it was Monday."

"Get a calendar," the officer didn't look amused. "We've got calls about a suspicious person loitering around here. Get out of here."

"Yes, sir," Peter nodded. "Thank you, officer. Have a good Sunday."

"Shut up and get out of here," the officer got back in the car.

Pete waved at the cops as he walked back across the street.

_Sunday. I'm three days behind? Did I miss school? Crap. Get home. Check the mail. And the messages. I take back all the jokes I made about the answering machine_

His steps quickened as his thoughts raced.

_Maybe I should get a job. That would help things a little. What kind of job could I get that would work around sneaking out at night? Pizza delivery? No. I'd need a car. Newspaper delivery? They have to be up before dawn. The Daily Planet has a local office. Hey, Aunt May, I may be ditching classes but I've got a crappy job. That will make it all better._

A flier caught his attention. It was yellow with bold black letters, plus it was on every surface for the next few blocks.

**Amateur Boxing Tournament. Fifty Dollar Entry Fee. Cash Winnings.**

_Or I could do that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been fighting a cold and it kicked my butt.


	6. 6

_Fifty dollars. That only means I need, forty-five ninety for the fee._

Peter looked at his reflection.

_How is this supposed to help?_

_Come home with a few hundred bucks and Aunt May won't mind me missing school._

_Do you really think she'll just go with it? She won't ask where the money came from? And how are you supposed to get into this thing? You're broke, underage, and have no idea how to box._

Pete sighed.

_Damn, you're negative._

_I'm rational. What about finding who's smuggling in these guns?_

_Punching guys would help me feel better._

"I could tell Aunt May that I've been having a hard time and I lost track of what day it was," Peter stared at his reflection. "Punching a stranger in the face would probably still feel good."

He headed downstairs and sat at the kitchen table. Aunt May was going to be home soon. There was a few things he could do to smooth the conversation. He started to make dinner. The one dish he could make, other than PB&J, was spaghetti and meatballs. Uncle Ben had told him that a grown man should know how to make at least three meals that didn't require a microwave. One that could be made in your underwear, one to impress a date, and one that just tasted good.

Aunt May came home just as the noodles cooled off enough to eat. He liked to cook them a little longer than Al dente so it didn't feel like chewing on rubber.

"What is going on?" Aunt May looked at the plates of noodles on the table.

"I can't make dinner?" Peter asked.

Aunt May gave him a look.

"Fine," Peter sighed as he sat. "I think I missed a couple days of school."

"You think?"

"I've been having a hard time lately," Peter didn't know where the shake in his voice came from. "I thought today was Thursday and tried to go to school."

"Aw, Peter," Aunt May stepped closer to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You should have said something."

"I didn't want to worry you," Peter whispered. "You've got so much to deal with already."

"You're grounded, of course."

"Of course," Peter nodded.

"If."

"If?"

"If you've missed school," Aunt May twirled a noodle on her fork. "If not, then you're not grounded. Just on probation."

"The dinner saved me didn't it," Peter said with a smile.

Aunt May didn't say anything. She studied her plate and continued to eat in silence.

"I was thinking about getting a job," Peter mentioned between bites.

"Peter," Aunt May kept her voice even. "You are a teenager. Your job is to go to high school."

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but I know we could use the money," Peter said softly. "You've been working so much."

"I appreciate it," Aunt May replied. "The extra money is nice, but that's not what I'm working so much," she put her fork on the plate. "This place is just too much."

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "I've been finding reasons to be out too."

"I understand, but I don't want you to think that you have to get a job," Aunt May took a deep breath. "We're not bad on money. Ben," she paused to gather her strength. "Had insurance that covered the funeral and we had some savings. It's not much, but we're okay."

"I can't be here alone," Peter whispered.

"I know," she patted his hand. "Do me a favor. Take a class. Start a new hobby. Something like that."

"Okay," Peter said with a nod. "I think I can do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler, sorry. Next chapter will further the plot in more interesting ways.


	7. 7

Peter sat on the edge of a cement block in the quad. He was early, which felt strange to him. His normal routine had him slipping in a few minutes late. Or more. A lot more, but today he had something he needed to do. A new hobby, just like Aunt May had suggested.

An older sedan pulled to a stop. He recognized the driver from his time waiting at the police station. The redhead got out of the car. Peter tried to remember her name. Something Gordon. He knew that part for sure.

She had an athletic build and moved with an understated grace. The thick black framed glasses didn't detract from the power in her eyes. Her gaze drifted along the open area in a practiced sweep. He could almost see her cataloging the scene. She focused on him as he stood.

"Hey," he said as he walked over to her.

"Hi," she gave him a once over. "I know you. We have a class together?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I feel like a jerk, but I can't remember your name."

"No worries," she laughed. "I don't remember yours. Parker?"

"Peter."

"I was close," she shrugged. "Barbara."

"Hi Barbara."

"Hi Peter," she smiled. "What's up?"

"Your dad is a cop, right?"

The smile faded from her face, "yes."

"Um," Peter suddenly found his shoes very interesting. "I need some help. My uncle," he cleared his throat as a lump formed. "My uncle was killed by an intruder. The police haven't found much. They can't really tell me anything really, but I've done my own digging."

"Oh?" She shifted her grip on her messenger bag. 

"Yeah," he took a deep breath. "It led me to Joe Chill."

"Wow," she whispered. "That's quite a lead."

Peter nodded, "do you know anything about penguins?"

"Penguins?"

"Someone said that he was a friend of penguins," Peter shrugged.

Her eyes went wide.

"Not penguins. The Penguin," she whispered.

"What?"

"The Penguin," she leaned in closer to him.

"You know a lot about this," Peter chuckled.

"I helped set up the network at GCPD," Barbara shrugged. "I know my way around the system."

"What can you tell me about The Penguin?"

"Most people just call him Penguin," Barbara smiled. "Oswald Cobblepot. He owns the Iceberg Lounge. He's connected to smuggling, moving stolen goods, and all sorts of crime."

"Okay," Peter filed the information away. "The cops know all this? What don't they do anything?"

"He's got a squad of lawyers," Barbara muttered. "All the evidence they find leads to someone else. His people and not him."

"Thanks," Peter nodded.

"Hey," Barbara touched his arm. "I know that look."

"What look?"

"My dad gets that same look in his eyes when he's working on a case," she met his gaze and held it. "You're going after him."

"Penguin brought the guns into the city that killed my uncle," Peter felt his muscles clench. "He needs to be stopped."

"And you're going to do it?" Barbara cocked her head to the side.

He looked into her eyes. There was something there. A spark that echoed his own. He needed an ally. Peter gave a firm nod. Barbara let out a long breath. She looked up at the sky and then to her bag.

"My number," she pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled on it. "Call me before you do anything stupid. I can help."

"Thank you," he sent her a text. "Now you have mine."

"I'm serious," Barbara glared at him. "Don't do anything until you talk to me."

Peter nodded, "deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, yes, but the next one won't. I'm really want to get another post up this week. It's going to be a long one regardless of when it is posted.


	8. 8

Peter checked the address once more before he knocked on the door. The house closer than he expected, only six blocks away, and looked eerily similar to his own. There were a couple of minor differences. The fence to the backyard was taller and the front door had a box in the middle of it instead of a peephole.

Barbara opened the door before he could knock.

"It's a camera," she answered. "Motion sensors make it start recording. My dad has a thing about security."

Peter nodded, "thanks."

"For?" She moved out of the doorway to let him in.

"Being quick," he stepped inside and waited for her. "I've got the address to the Iceberg Lounge and I know what he looks like now. Thin British guy, brown hair, blue eyes, and a scar on the bridge of his nose. Not sure why they call him Penguin though."

"No idea," Barbara said as she led him to the kitchen. "You'd think he'd be some slimy short guy with a limp or something."

"A monocle and a tuxedo collection," Peter offered. "Is your dad home?"

"He's at work," she shook her head.

"He won't mind you having a guy alone in the house?"

"I told him you were coming over to work on a project," she said once they were in the kitchen. "I didn't clarify, but it wasn't a lie. What about you? Does your mom think it's weird that you're going over to some strange girls house? I could be a drug dealer."

"My parents died when I was four," Peter held up a hand before she could speak. "My aunt and uncle raised me. You didn't know, it's okay. My aunt is a nurse, she's been working extra shifts and has encouraged me to take up a hobby."

Barbara looked at him and the silence stretched into an uncomfortable length.

"Penguin owns the Iceberg Lounge," Peter offered. "That's a little corny."

"I know, right?" Barbara chuckled. "The previous owners disappeared and then he showed up. It used to be called The Velvet Barrel. The place started out as a speakeasy during prohibition that catered to the upper crust. Cobblepot gutted the place, changed the name, and even put in a temperature controlled centerpiece with a chunk of an iceberg."

Peter blinked as the information settled into his brain.

"Take a seat," she said with a nod to the open chair next to her spot.

There was a laptop on that had stickers on the back he didn't recognize. Beside it sat a battered red toolbox. She waited for him to sit before she started.

"You're going to need support," she opened the toolbox. Barbara pulled out a small ball of wires that was contained in a clear orb. "Put this in your ear. It's a two-way radio. The vibrations from your jaw send the words to me and I can talk to you without others hearing."

"Nice," Peter slid the piece into his ear. "Won't the police notice that their tech has gone missing?"

"This is my tech," she tapped a logo that written in thick black letters on the toolbox.

"Bat?" He squinted at it.

"What?" Her forehead wrinkled as she looked at him. "B.G.T. Barbara Gordon Technologies."

"Oh," Peter winced. "I thought it was an A. It sounds cool though. Bat Tech."

"Whatever," she took another radio orb and put it in her ear. "I've got surveillance gear that we can setup tonight." 

"We?"

"I'm not letting you do this alone," she stared hard at him. "It's my tech and my intel. You need me."

"You could get hurt," Peter shook his head. "These are bad guys. They have some serious hardware and this Penguin guy isn't going to be happy about someone snooping around. Plus, you're dad is a cop."

"So?" She rolled her eyes. "I've taken gymnastics since I was four and self-defense almost as long. Have you ever been in a fight?"

Peter didn't say anything. He carefully stood from his spot. There was no way he could tell her what was going on without going into the full story.

"You can't tell anyone about this," he held her gaze as he spoke. 

Peter could see her tense. Her foot curled around the leg of the chair. She drifted a hand closer to the toolbox. He took a step back and didn't stop until he was against the wall.

"Don't freak out," he said. "Please."

He slid up the wall. She watched him climb to a perch on the ceiling. Her head cocked to the side as she studied him.

"How?"

"I got bit by a spider," he dropped back to the floor.

"I got bit by a cat the other day, but I don't have whiskers," her voice went higher as she spoke.

"I can't explain it," he shrugged. "There was a trip to Ace Chemicals. I got bit by a spider and got sick for a couple of days. When I woke up I was like this. I can feel things before they happen, stick to walls, and I'm a lot stronger. Even with your training you'd slow me down."

The confusion was replaced by a firm glare.

"Listen up, spider guy," she poked him in the chest. "You need me. I might be part arachnid, but I'm not letting you do this alone. I know where you're going and what you're planning on doing. You work with me, or I do this myself."

Peter looked into her eyes. That spark had turned into a raging fire. He could feel the truth in her words.

"Fine," he sighed. "I've got a mask. You'll need one too. We don't want someone tracking you down."

"A mask," she muttered as she looked back at the toolbox. "I'm going to need to do something with my hair."

"Don't go with a hoodie," he said. "It's tempting, but they block too much. Goggles, good ones at least, work nicely. They keep junk out of your eyes."

"You've done this before, haven't you?" She studied him. Not just the quick scan, but a full in-depth inspection.

"I tracked Joe Chill to his warehouse," Peter took his mask out of the interior coat pocket. "He wasn't the one who killed my uncle, but he supplied the gun. It was stupid. I was stupid, but at least I was pointed in Penguin's direction."

She closed the toolbox and powered down her laptop.

"Chill is a familiar name," Barbara whispered. "It makes sense he's working for someone like Penguin. Peddling guns to low-rent criminals is right up his alley. He used to be one," her voice picked back up to its normal rhythm. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

"Okay."

"I'm serious," she held up a finger. "I will find you if you try to leave without me."

"We're going to get shot at," Peter shrugged. "You know that right?"

"Yes," she scrunched her brow. "I've heard what my dad has to say about the department. It's crooked, hobbled, and stonewalled at every step. Gotham needs us. Hang out for a few minutes. I've got a few more gadgets I need to grab."

"I will," Peter looked down at the mask in his hand. 

He wasn't alone anymore.


	9. 9

"You've been thinking about this a lot," Peter watched as Barbara walked down the stairs.

She wore a dark purple leather jacket and a matching mask with her hair threaded through the back. Her pants were black athletics. The two mingled with the shadows. Only the yellow leather gloves stood out of the overall look.

"You have no idea," she smiled. "Follow me."

Barbara led him to the detached garage. They had the slip sideways through the thin space between the boxes and junk.

"This is what you wanted to show me?"

"No," she laughed. "This is how I keep my dad out." 

She opened an old locker and stepped through. Peter followed. The back of the locker had been removed. It led to an immaculate work area with a dirt bike in the middle.

"You have got to be kidding me," Peter muttered.

"A girl has got to have a hobby," she gave the bike a loving pat. "I only have one helmet."

She held the mat-black shell out to him.

"You take it," he tapped his forehead. "Freaky abilities, remember?"

"Fine," she shrugged. "Try not to fall off."

"That won't be a problem," he chuckled. "Do we have a plan?"

"Proof won't help," she strapped the helmet into place. "The police have mountains of evidence, but they can't do anything with it. Cobblepot owns enough people to make things disappear. The stuff that doesn't is shredded by his lawyers."

"Ouch."

"Yeah," she slid around the bike to a workbench. "It's driving my dad crazy. We need to hit Penguin where it hurts."

"The flippers?"

"The bottom line," she waved him over. "We stakeout the Iceberg Lounge and go from there. Find a target and take them down. Rinse. Repeat. Victory."

She held out a thick strap of plastic that looked like the bastard child of a zip-tie and a lace choker.

"Put this on," Barbara clasped one on like a necklace.

"What are these?"

"Subvocal communication," she said simply.

"Right."

"It's a fancy two-way radio," she shook her head. "My own design. They only talk to each other"

Peter took it. He inspected the flexible strip. It was hardier than he had thought. The clasp was a little bat. He shook his head and put it on.

"Penguin owns the Iceberg Lounge," he chuckled. "And we found him by tracking a guy named Joe Chill."

"All these ice puns giving you a brain freeze?" She smiled at him as she slid into place.

Peter straddled the bike. He left a space between them, but stayed close. She kick-started the engine and laid on the gas. The bike shot through a carefully constructed facade. Peter did his best not to scream as she raced down dark alleys. He wasn't sure if she heard him. It was doubtful over her own.

"It's amazing, right?" Her voice buzzed along his jaw and up into his ear.

"Kind of like flying," he replied. "We're going to need something to call each other. Saying our names in the middle of everything would be a bad idea."

"I could call you Bug," she offered.

"Spiders aren't bugs," he rolled his eyes.

"Spider would work," she nodded.

"You could be Bat," Peter said. "The logo thing. It looks like a bat."

"I get it," she replied after a moment. "Fine. Bat and Spider. Let's just ignore the fact that it makes us sound like a bad Cold War spy flick."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post something to show I'm still working on this story. Sorry for the delay. I left the note up in the Chapter 9 slot because it's going to be a while before my love is back to 100%.
> 
> Story Note:  
> I am going to mash my favorite bits of various DC stories together. Penguin is inspired by the Telltale game. That was an awesome take and didn't fall back on 'he looks like a penguin' as the entire basis for the character. I'm not planning on moving any of the Marvel characters over, as of yet. This may change, but Peter is the one I wanted to put in Gotham. Plus there are a lot of analogs. Black Cat/Catwoman. Joker/Green Goblin. Killer Croc/Lizard.


	10. 10

"Hey, web-head," the vibration of her voice made his nose tingle.

"Yes, squeakers?"

"Squeakers?"

"Bats," he said. "They squeak," the mic didn't pick up a sigh, but he was pretty sure it would have. "What's up?"

"My side, alley," her voice came in short bursts. She was moving. "Slimy guy in a suit. He's being escorted by two walking bricks. The briefcase he's carrying looks like a movie prop. A bag with a money sign on it would be less subtle."

Spider sprinted across the roof he had taken as a lookout. He easily cleared the gap between buildings and stopped when he got next to her. She pointed to the alley below.

The slimy guy was wearing an expensive suit that he made look like it had been salvaged from a dumpster. He was too thin with a hook nose and wide eyes. There was a metal briefcase handcuffed to his left wrist. The two men flanking him were slabs of muscle that was probably from a needle rather than the gym.

"My guess," she spoke barely above a whisper as the mic clearly transmitted her voice. "Suitcase is either cash, or a sample of a product."

"Drugs?"

"Penguin runs guns and tech," she said with a shake of her head.

"Crime lord with morals?"

"File said that his brother died from an OD," Bat replied. "He won't touch the stuff. The last person who tried to get him into drugs disappeared. They found a hand, removed postmortem, in a dumpster."

"It's a little alarming that you know so much."

"If the police didn't want me reading their files then they should have made it harder to get in," she shrugged. "What do you think?"

"He's a good of a target as any," Spider nodded.

"Busting up one deal won't crack Penguins' nest egg," Bat smiled at him.

"You're loving this. We should follow him, but the bike isn't stealthy," he said as the trio got into a white sedan. "What's the range on these things?"

"A mile," she said. "More on a clear night and line of sight."

"I'll tell you where they're going," Spider didn't wait for her to respond.

He sprinted across the roof and sprang to the next. She watched him tail the car as it pulled out of the alley.

"The rooftops," she muttered. "That would be a good way to travel. I'll have to work on that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. Working on it when I can. Really want to get a LONG chapter out. Thank you for reading. This is my most successful non-smut story.  
> That's it for now. I'm going to take a nap. I hope.


	11. 11

The duo crouched atop of stack of shipping containers. There were three cars below arranged so that they were all facing each other. Slime, Slab, and Brick -the group they had followed from The Iceberg Lounge- had been joined by ten others. All of them wore suits that had to be expensive, but didn't fit quite right.

"Anything?" He asked Batsy next to him.  
She had come prepared with a setup of binoculars. Nothing fancy. Off the rack, but they worked better than the ones he didn't have.

"The guy who works for Penguin-"

"Slime," he cut in.

"Slime," she rolled her eyes. "He's playing salesman. Something is in that case that both of those groups are interested in. Can't get a good look at it."

"More guns probably," Spider growled. 

He scanned the area around them. The warehouse district and the docks met in a surprisingly upscale neighborhood. There was plenty of money flowing through this stretch of Gotham. The buildings were in great shape, the roads were smooth, and the streetlights didn't even flicker. Slime had picked a fine spot behind a few warehouses. It was a nice little box with plenty of exits if things went sour. The nearby lights provided just enough illuminations to keep things visible without being too bright. Any of the group below that took a step forward was cloaked in shadow.

"The safe spot is right in the middle of them," Bat lowered her binoculars.

"Aren't the docks supposed to be dark and sketchy?"

"This is Gotham," she gave a sour laugh. "The docks and the new warehouse district are booming. Smuggling rackets from all over the country have a place here. There are even a few legal operations too."

"Wow," he sighed. "Got a plan?"

"Nope," she hooked her binoculars onto her belt. "But I've got a gadget."

She pulled a smoke alarm strapped to a surge protector that had been fused with a hand-held radio from her satchel.

"What is that?"

"EMP generator," she extended the antenna and held it out to him. "Hold the white button and toss it at the light closest to them."

"Why me?"

"You've got those freaking powers."

"Fine," he took the bundle of electronics. "You're scary smart, you know."

She smiled. He pressed the button, took aim, and launched it. The electronics mutation soared through the air. It made it about halfway to its target before it exploded. A bright white light turned the square into a patch of daylight.

"Was it supposed to do that?" He asked as he blinked the stars out of his eyes.

Her smiled took on a mad scientist flavor to it. "It was the prototype."

Complete darkness had settled in once the flash faded. A chorus of angry voice erupted from below them. 

"And for part two of the plan," he took two long strides to the edge of the container and jumped.

"Part two," she echoed.

Spider landed on the roof of one of the cars. He let his instincts guide him. His foot swept out and caught a thug in the side of the head. Flashes of muzzle fire provided snapshots of the area. He ducked out of the way of a wild spray and rolled to the ground. A thug nearby screamed curses as a bullet hit bone.

"Stay down," her voice vibrated along his jaw. "We'll just get in the way now."

"How long will the EMP last?"

"Uh."

"You don't know?"

"It was the prototype," she replied. "The fact that it didn't explode when I put it my bag was a win."

"New crime fighting rule, no prototypes in the field," he pressed himself close to the ground waited.

"What are you shooting at?" Someone yelled.

"What are you shooting at?" Another voice answered.

The light nearby flickered. Spider looked up at it. He silently implored it to stay off. In answer it clicked back on to full strength. The one beside it did as well. Some stroke of luck had kept the lights across from him off. The same ones that would have not shown him at all if they came on.

"Plan B," he muttered as he looked up at the gunman standing next to him.


	12. 12

"Wow," Peter breathed. "That was something."

"Yeah," Barbara wrapped the cut on her arm with a bandage. "When that one guy did that thing-"

"And then you-"

"I know!" She beamed. "I can't believe we took down Penguin's entire operation in one night."

"You did some awesome detective work."

**Just Kidding**

 

**The real Chapter 12**

Chunks of asphalt cut through his clothes as he rolled under the car. The gunfire made his ears ring, but a few scrapes were better than bullet holes. Spider continued to roll until he made it to the other side. He hopped up to a crouch once he was clear.

"What the hell are you shooting at?"

"There was a guy in a mask."

"Where?"

"Right here," Spider yelled as he soared across the top of the car.

The gunman turned just in time to catch a full dropkick to the chest. He felt something crack under his feet. Spider caught the edge of the car, pulled himself into a flip back the way he came, and landed before the thug had even hit the ground.

There had been thirteen men at the start of the deal. At least one of them had been shot when the lights went out. Ten to one, until Bats got into the mix.

"Easy mode," he smirked under his mask.

Slime, Slab, and Brick were getting back in the car. An idea sparked in his brain. Spider slid across the hood of the car. He landed, swept the feet out of the closest thug, and grabbed a black leather suitcase.

"Catch," he yelled as he tossed it to Slab. "I've got you covered."

The big guy caught it on instinct and kept moving toward the car. Spider turned his attention back to the thug on the ground next to him. He snatched the gun away as it came to bear. The thug blanched as the barrel was now turned on him.

Spider flipped the gun around and smacked the prone criminal in the middle of the forehead. Something zipped over his head. The danger sense didn't tell him to duck, but it was close enough to feel the air move. He followed the blur of motion. A small explosion of black powder took a gunman in the face. 

Batsy streaked through the night a step behind. She was tiny next to the sputtering thug, but a kick to the side of his knee, and a punch to the gut brought him down to her level. Bats sprang at him. She hooked an arm around his neck, swung around to land on his back, and slammed both hands onto his ears. The thug crumbled to the ground. She used him as a springboard and dove behind one of the cars for cover.

The time around them moved outside the rest of the world. Spider tossed the gun at a thug taking aim at Bats. It hit the target just below the ear. Bats sliced through the shadows leaving small explosions and black clouds to mark the gunmen she had felled. Spider was a blur of motion. He hopped, dodged, dived, and spun through the chaos. The danger sense kept him one step ahead of the gunfire.

Spider wrapped his legs around the head of a thug. He leaned back, twisted, and used the ground as an extra anchor. The crook used the asphalt to break the fall. Spider rolled to his feet. He scanned the area for his next target and came up empty.

"Think we should tie them up?" Bats asked from her perch atop the hood of one of the cars.

"Do you have any rope?" He asked as he stood straight.

"They have belts," she slid off the car. 

"Someone has to have called the cops," Spider took a deep breath and let it out. "We should get out of here. Grab that case and we'll take it back to the boss."

"Right," she plucked a brown briefcase from the ground as she walked. "Let's get out of here."

The duo disappeared into the dark stretch of dead lamps. He offered her his hand. She took it. He swung her onto his back.

"Hold on," he whispered as he started to scale the stack of shipping containers.

She locked her hands around his chest. The briefcase dangled over his stomach. Adrenaline carried them quickly up the stack of seven.

"Not yet," he said as he felt her grip slack. "Now comes the fun part."

"What?"

He sprinted to the edge of the container and bounded across to the next stack. The briefcase smacked into his stomach as they landed. He took them in a half-circle path back to the bike.

"Warn me next time," her voice shook a little as they finally landed. "I can come up with a harness or something."

"There will be a next time?" He smiled under his mask.

"We started something tonight," she said with a firm nod. "I plan on finishing it," she raised the briefcase. "Why did I grab this?"

"I had a plan," he replied. "You were right. One deal isn't going to hurt Penguin in the long run, but if we can make it look like we're working for him."

"Taking the money without providing the goods," she nodded. "Do you think they'll buy it?"

"We didn't touch Slime," he shrugged. "And I tossed them one of the briefcases."

"Slime?"

"The slimy guy we followed from Iceberg Lounge," he said. "It makes it easier to keep track of them."

"Sure it does," she chuckled. "Let's see what's in here."

She propped the briefcase on the bike and opened it. The interior was packed with stacks of hundred dollar bills.

"That is a lot of money," he said. "What do we do with it?"

"Turn it in."

"You want to give it to a police force that we know is corrupt?"

"We don't know how much," she corrected.

"Exactly. This isn't like we stopped a bank robbery," he clothed the case. "We drop it off and some dirty cop takes it back to their boss. How would that help?"

"We're not keeping it," she gave him a hard look.

"No, of course not," he scoffed. "Not all of it."

"Peter," her hard look turned into a glare.

"Listen to me for a second," he moved away from the briefcase. "We did good tonight, but we got lucky. It isn't going to be cheap to keep doing this. We need equipment and supplies. Body armor. Proper tools and parts for you to work with."

"Damn it," she sighed. The tension in her shoulders eased. "That makes sense."

"We take a little, for upkeep and expenses," he said. "Then we spread out the rest to good causes. Food banks. Clinics. Shelters."

"Fine," she swung into her spot on the motorcycle. "Let's get out of here. I've got some research to do."


	13. 13

"So what you're telling me," Oswald kept his gaze steady on the three men standing in front of his desk. "Is that a couple of masked men busted up our deal, stole my money, and then you just let them getaway?"

"We brought some of it back," the one on the right set the briefcase on the desk.

"Some," Oswald leaned back in his chair.

Oswald Copplbepot was not a physically imposing man. He was thin, athletic only if described by someone extremely generous, and had a weaselly look to him. No one alive knew how he came to earn the name Penguin, or why he held onto it, but the people who asked didn't last long.

He adjusted the suit of his coat as he stood. His spindly finger wrapped around the sides of the briefcase and pulled it closer. It opened easily. His beady gray eyes scanned the contents. He closed it and clicked the latches shut.

"You know something?" He sat on the edge of the desk with the case in his hand. "My dad had something just like this. Leather, brass capped edges, and the works. Gift from Thomas Wayne. Right fancy it was. Me and Bruce grew up together. We'd play football for hours. Shame about his legs. Thing is," he slid off the desk. "The briefcase wasn't just fancy."

He slammed the edge of the case into the jaw of the man who had put it on the desk. The man folded as it crashed into his exposed stomach. Penguin brought it down on the back of his head like he had split wood every day of his life.

"Reinforced, it was," Penguin straightened his hair. "Could take a bullet, point blank."

The man on the floor didn't move.

"Clean this up," Penguin dropped the briefcase on the ground. "Get this back to the buyers with my apologies."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still alive. Haven't forgotten about the story. Will continue to work on it. Thank you for reading and for holding out. I honestly don't know when the next post will be (it's official, I tore something) but I will do my best.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Spider-Man, Gotham City, or any of that stuff.  
> Comments and like fuel the writing process. Seriously. 
> 
> Like it? Hit that button. Share it.
> 
> No current beta-reader. All errors are my own.


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